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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/28474308">To Commemorate the End of the Year</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/jojoandpicnic/pseuds/jojoandpicnic'>jojoandpicnic</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Supernatural</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Attempt at Humor, Good-bye 2020, M/M, New Year's Eve, New Year's Kiss, Non-Binary Castiel (Supernatural), Quarantine, Swearing</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2021-01-01</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-01-01</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-10 14:33:46</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>1,671</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/28474308</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/jojoandpicnic/pseuds/jojoandpicnic</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>It's New Year's Eve and Dean Winchester has found himself with an unexpected visitor. Now he has to think of a way to get them to go away.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Castiel/Dean Winchester</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>2</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>10</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>To Commemorate the End of the Year</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Did I write a fic within the past six or so hours just to say that I wrote a fic this year? Hell yeah I did. I've got 40 minutes until midnight lol. Good-bye and good riddance 2020!</p><p>To those of you who read this, I genuinely hope that this next year goes so hecking awesome for you. Stay safe, stay healthy, wear a mask, and happy new year! :)</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Dean was once again asking how it was that he ended up in this situation. He had simply been going through his grandfather Henry’s shit — personal documents, old tax returns, photographs, et cetera. Okay. So maybe he <em> knew </em> how he ended up in this situation. It was the fucking memorandum.</p><p>And honestly? Dean thought it had been a joke, like one of those fake letters that somehow slipped itself out of a fiction book. It basically started with, “Hi, Henry. I hope this letter finds you high on acid because what you will soon read will make you wish you were.” </p><p>The letter had found Dean like a sack of bricks that floated straight into his face, rendering him absolutely astounded that a human being could write something so fucking <em> insane </em>. So imagine his surprise when that astonishment turned into a Mr. Krab-esque vertigo!</p><p>Holy shit! It was like he unleashed fucking Mothman upon the attic of his childhood home with absolutely no way to contain whatever radioactive, nuclear breech this… (thing? bird? guy?) [REDACTED] was! Because this [REDACTED] was making a bigger mess than Dean had, rambling on in befuddlement.</p><p>“This isn’t 1960,” it (they? he? she? xe?) said.</p><p>“No,” Dean said dumbly — like <em> really </em>dumbly because know he had Mystery-Mothman’s attention. It was like being stared at by the sun itself dressed up in a trench coat with raven wings attached, as an added mess maker. The gaze was blue, blue orbs that pierced through Dean’s soul and made him stutter. “It’s 2020.”</p><p>Fucking 2020. This was just the thing to end out the shittiest year ever. The only reason he had even been <em> in </em> the attic was because he was so goddamn bored! He had run out of things to do and rearrange and organize and mess up and clean up and holy <em> crap </em> was he bored. Living alone was a nightmare. A lonely, lonely nightmare.</p><p>Well. That was a bit rough. Because how the years started really was with breaking up with Lisa. That sucked. Balls. Soggy, wrinkly balls. But that was nothing compared to how it was going!</p><p>And, yeah. Animal Crossing had gotten Dean through most of it. Chilling on an island, interacting with neighbors, was what Dean really wanted to be doing all goddamn year long. Full stop. No sarcasm. Innocent fun. Really, truly. (And then Among Us happened and he was off on a murdering spree of glory. But that was neither here nor there. He wasn’t slowly going insane. No way.)</p><p>The blue orbs narrowed and whatever the thing was started becoming a more clearly defined shape until all that was left in front of him was another (man?) in a cheap suit, blue tie, uncomfortable dress shoes, and a banged up trench coat. Pretty handsome. Which was a bizarre thought, popping into Dean’s head quite robotically, followed up with, <em> I’d tap that</em>. </p><p>Damn weird intrusive thoughts about whatever this thing was.</p><p>“You aren’t Henry Winchester,” [REDACTED] said. Their voice was low, gravelly. It did things to Dean he really didn’t want to be happening because this whole thing was too fucking weird.</p><p>Dean cleared his throat and shook his head. But the thing kept staring at him, so he picked himself up from where he had fallen in shock and shook the memorandum in his hand. “Uh, no,” he said. “I’m his grandson. Dean.” </p><p>They peered at him like he was something to be studied, and boy did they look. It was like he was underneath a microscope, like they were literally looking at his molecules. Then, they nodded. “I am Castiel.”</p><p>And then there was silence. Dean didn’t know what to do. Castiel obviously wasn’t doing anything. They were at a standstill. Dean was cursing everything. Anything and everything. </p><p>(Except his brother Sammy. He could never curse him.)</p><p>(Oh to be Sammy, living it up as a hotshot lawyer in California with a beautiful wife and two little ones. Except Dean fucked up his life with Lisa, so here he was: nearly forty-two years old, all alone in his childhood home, drinking every night like an alcoholic, Zoom calls with his friend Charlie to play computer games once a week, mechanic business taking a fucking bad turn, and almost no human contact for the past nine months of the year.)</p><p>(Oh to be literally anyone else.)</p><p>He looked at the memorandum again. He thought about what it said again. It was really fucking weird, like really fucking weird, but it said something about something something, so something something something, which meant something and because of that something, something else would effectively be done on the conditions of something something something. And thinking about it, Dean was pretty sure he met those conditions. Which, <em> shit</em>. </p><p>“You’re here because of this?” Dean asked Castiel, waving the piece of paper in the hair between them. They nodded. “Uh, so. My brother’s the lawyer, not me. Mind explaining it to me?”</p><p>Castiel took a step towards him, expression still broody and a little confused. “It is an agreement,” they said simply. Dean had to prompt them for more. “Your grandfather carried out God’s plan perfectly, so he was afforded a favor. This favor could be anything and because of that, I have been sent to fulfill that favor on the conditions that the recipient of the favor is alone, in need of help, and is righteous.”</p><p>“Right.” Okay. This is fine. “And I fit those conditions.” Except, he had a question. “Righteous? Whaddya mean I’m righteous?”</p><p>“You are a good man, Dean Winchester.”</p><p>Dean nodded, disbelieving. Mighty assumptious of Castiel to think that his last name was Winchester. Even more so to call him a good man. Especially when Dean’s entire life could be defined as that one meme with that guy looking at some woman while his girlfriend looks at him in disgust, except instead of a girlfriend, it’s the concept of the straight and narrow path, while the other woman is bad decisions piled up on top of destructive behaviors.</p><p>“So, uh… my grandfather is a little… dead….” His voice trailed off awkwardly and he felt like arranging a date between his forehead and his palm because <em> really?</em> That’s how he decided to deliver that news? Still, he ploughed on through. “No one to do a favor for here.”</p><p>Castiel cocked his head and stared at him like he was particularly dumb. “You’re here.”</p><p>“I’m not Henry Winchester, though.”</p><p>“You’re his grandson.”</p><p>“Y...ea...h….”</p><p>“Henry Winchester is dead.”</p><p>“Correct.”</p><p>“You inherited the favor, then.”</p><p>Dean wanted to bang his head against a wall. He could see the rest of his day going one of two ways: the lesser evil, which was getting himself good and drunk (again) and falling into bed to sleep off whatever the fuck is going on, or the greater evil, which was going along with this madness and accepting that he has lost his mind.</p><p>Either way, neither scenario seemed pretty. So, naturally, he was going to see the madness through without another care in the world. </p><p>What fucking favor would he even ask for? Would asking for a favor make this all go away faster?</p><p>He had to ask. He needed to clarify. He opened his mouth and, “Are you like a genie or something?” That wasn’t what he meant to ask. <em> Fuck</em>.</p><p>“No,” Castiel said, sounding put off. “I am an angel of the Lord.”</p><p>Ah. So Dean must have drunken himself into literal oblivion last night because it seemed that he had died and gone to actual fucking heaven. “Angel of the Lord” <em> bullshit</em>.</p><p>“And if I ask you for a favor, you’ll go away?”</p><p>That earned him a nod so he thought and thought and thought about it. What should he ask for? A beer? Nah. He could get one himself. The key to the city? Nah. That was stupidly useless. A billion dollars? </p><p>His heart yearned to say that, but then he thought twice and considered that it might be too greedy and, as this was an angel of the Lord, that might not go down too well. So he’d just have to keep that in his dreams. <em> Weep</em>. A billion dollars would do a lot of good, though, and he couldn’t help but think of all the good he could do <em> with </em> it, so maybe a billion dollars wouldn’t be so greedy after all? No. No, no. No. He couldn’t just <em> ask </em> for a billion dollars. The universe was never so kind.</p><p>What the fuck should he ask for?!</p><p>Oh! An angelic blessing for the New Year. Yeah. That was a good idea. That was something his mom would approve of.</p><p>So Dean nodded to himself, confidently met Castiel’s beautiful blue gaze and tousled hair and chiseled jaw, and opened his mouth to ask for the most pious favor he could think of. </p><p>“Will you be my New Year’s kiss tonight?”</p><p>Oh what the fuck, Dean! That’s what came out of your fucking no-good mouth!? What in the actual ever living, God-fearing fuckity fuck! </p><p>Forty-one years old and wanting a New Year’s kiss like some woebegotten twenty-something who felt like the world would end if they didn’t have a spouse before thirty. It was so corny, so girly, so utterly and ridiculously dumb and unimportant and insignificant. What a <em> waste </em> of potential!</p><p>He wanted to smack himself silly, or crawl under the covers of his bed and never come out again, or hide away in the closet. Seriously. What had possessed him to say <em> that</em>? </p><p>And unsurprisingly — or surprisingly, depending on Dean’s state of mind — the angel nodded along like that was a perfectly normal request.</p><p>So. Guess who got to kiss a literal angel to welcome in the New Year?</p><p>No one would ever fucking believe him. God<em>damn </em> it. </p><p>(Or was it blessed? He had been kissed by an angel of the Lord after all. Could God damn that?)</p><p>(It was the best fucking kiss of his life, though.)</p>
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